


Baby It's Cold Outside

by betweenthebliss



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Academy Fic, M/M, Snowball Fight, under 500 words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-20
Updated: 2010-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-09 14:36:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betweenthebliss/pseuds/betweenthebliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>proof that i can, in fact, write kirk/mccoy. written for mirorelle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby It's Cold Outside

It had never snowed in Georgia-- fifty degrees and cloudy passed for winter there, and even then you were likely to have a Christmas as green and sunny as the fourth of July. It isn't that McCoy's never seen snow-- they'd traveled enough when he was younger, been to Times Square to see the tree lit up, take his little sisters ice skating at Rockefeller Center-- but it's been a long time since he's woken up to this, the entire world blanketed in white, the air a dust storm of snow.

It's still snowing by the time he gets out the door, wrapped in a wool coat over his cadet uniform. He wishes he had a hat; he'd look damn stupid in it, but at least his ears would be warm.

And, he reflects a moment later as a snowball hits the back of his neck with a wet thump, if he also had a scarf he wouldn't now have icewater dripping down his back.

He turns just in time to duck the next snowball. "Ooohhh, strike one for Iowa!" Jim's yell is muffled by the snow falling around them, and McCoy's vision is blurred as well, Jim only a dark shape standing behind-- that's a picnic table, McCoy guesses, heaped so high with snowballs it's almost unrecognizeable. "Gonna be three strikes real soon if you don't cut that out," he warns as he starts slogging through the snow. "Says you," Jim retorts, "I have excellent aim." McCoy responds by letting Jim's next snowball fly right over his head without even ducking.

By the time he gets within ten feet of Jim he's grinning too hard to hide, though, and he's got a snowball in his own gloved hands. "I'm a doctor, not a baseball player," he says, "I don't do long shots." Jim smirks. "Well come on then, doctor," he taunts, tapping his chest. "I'll give it to you easy. Lay it on me."

McCoy rounds the picnic table still weighing the snowball in his hands. There are snowflakes stuck in Jim's eyebrows and lashes, and the top layer of his hair is a damp fuzz. "You're asking for this, you know," McCoy says, shaking his head.

"I know." Jim's voice has dropped to a husky murmur, and he's giving McCoy that hot stare that Jim knows, damn him, is the fastest way to make McCoy forget whatever was in his head a second ago. It works just as well this time too; the snowball drops out of McCoy's hands as they fist in Jim's coat, and Jim's mouth is as hot as the air is cold, and McCoy has to remind himself to breathe.

Until another snowball is smashed against the back of his neck and he pulls away, howling. "You're dead meat, Kirk," he swears, running after Jim as he flees, both of them laughing so hard it hurts.


End file.
